


17

by broblerone



Series: post-cal bro drabbles [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Grooming, borderline sexual abuse, caliborn's views toward both sex and dirk are instilled into lil' cal, extremely unhealthy views on relationships/intimacy/sexuality, it goes about as badly as you'd expect, technically not a post-cal drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broblerone/pseuds/broblerone
Summary: You’ve been seventeen since the day you were born, and you’re sure you’ll continue to be seventeen until the day you die.





	17

When you were seventeen years old, the air hung heavy with the scent of animal crackers and stale glue. Your first tooth had just fallen out, and in your surprise you began to weep. He told you it was okay. You believed him. A little girl’s fingers twined between yours, two stubby chalk-dusted hands merging in a symbol she called “best friends,” a symbol he called “perverted,” a symbol you called “perverted.” You didn’t know what the word meant, but you knew his disgusted sneer. Had you not been forced into the corner after hitting her rosy cheek, you would have placed yourself there, anyway. You would learn how to be ashamed one way or another.

When you were seventeen years old, you realized that your bicycle was quickly becoming too small for your growing legs. He said you were shaping up to be a strapping young man. It took a little searching, but you found a new bike. He said he had seen you already, as a strapping young man. Your legs were a little too short, but you could reach if you lowered the seat all the way. He said that you were a stud. If you kept pedaling, your legs would develop muscle. You wanted to be a stud. Muscular men didn’t have their two front teeth missing. You would be ready to meet all of his expectations once they grew in.

When you were seventeen years old, you realized that you had misunderstood. For the first time, pink dots started popping up on your cheeks, and he grew panicked. You were growing the way he wanted, the way he had said you would, but he wanted you to turn back. Any minute now, he said, people would realize how perfect a specimen you are. Any minute now, he said, people would try to put their hands on you to keep you to themselves. Any minute now, he said, your voice and your balls and your spirit would drop, and then you would be available. He grew possessive. Skin on skin made you want to scrub away your excess growth-spurt height. Showers grew longer. You felt chalk on your palms and resolved to wear gloves.

When you were seventeen years old, you shaved for the first time. Detention’s chatty regulars had been talking about promposals, and you felt lucky. He was pleased with the way your jawline was slowly getting slimmer, but he was overjoyed with your virtue. The heat that pooled in your stomach, in your cheeks, in your boxers, in your heart-- you had iced it out. No other stud your age had managed such a feat, he said. They were animals, they were filthy, they found ways to overwhelm their own carnal desires into submission. You were clean. Your heart never skipped beats. He was proud.

When you were seventeen years old, you found a meteor had crashed into your favorite record store. He was manic. The crater held a baby, a foreign little thing, a creature you could not relate to. He ordered you to pick him up. He ordered you to take him home. He ordered you to name him. You picked him up. You took him home. You named him.

When you were seventeen, your website started getting more views than you knew what to do with. He finally ordered you to stop holding Dave, lest the child get the wrong idea. You could still feel the chalk beneath your glove, but your mind still turned to perversion. The warmth of a hug, a ruffle of his hair, a dastardly kiss on his cheek. To think that you would crave to violate something so precious to you. To think that you would betray the guidance of the only thing protecting you. To think too hard made you nauseous. Skin against skin, fall in line: now there was felt against felt. You began collecting ad revenue.

When you were seventeen, you stopped shaving so much. Dave was big enough to handle a sword, and you had learned to properly shove down the vile instinct to hold him. Your facial hair gave your chin a handsome scruff. He was confident enough, now, that you were well enough in your prime that the other boys and girls wouldn’t think to ask you to prom. You had been lucky, in detention, that your own thoughts never had to drift to tuxedo rentals.

When you were seventeen, you drew blood on Dave. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay. He told you it was okay.

When you were seventeen, he called you a stud for the first time in daysmo monthd, dayea, years, days days, days, for the first time since before you totaled your new bike (the one whose seat you had to adjust, the one you’ve been riding since you were seventeen). For the first time, you fought back when he ordered you to bring your sword to the roof. He bared his fangs at Dave, and the message was clear. You obeyed. You didn’t want Dave to die.

When you were seventeen, you noticed a blue ring around your pupil that you swore hadn’t always been there. He said it was proof that you were his. He said it was like a tattoo. He said he gave it to you personally. He said it was a gift for your seventeenth birthday. That struck you as strange-- you didn’t recall having turned seventeen. You knew better than to question him. You didn’t recall climbing to the roof. You knew better than to question him. You didn’t recall learning to brutalize so thoroughly. You knew better than to question him.

When you were seventeen, your own sword was used against you. His voice had always found its way past your consciousness and into your dreams, but now his familiar giggle was slipping. Your situation was clear. You bled out onto the Beat Mesa for interminable minutes, left with thoughts you had never had to parse on your own. Orange feathers pinned your lead body to the ground.

When you were seventeen, you fell prey to rigor mortis. You died still looking forward to adulthood.

**Author's Note:**

> a line in the previous work in this series is "you’ve been seventeen since the day you were born, and you’re sure you’ll continue to be seventeen until the day you die" and someone left a comment saying they'd be interested in a fic about it, so! here it is


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